


The End Meets the Beginning

by Blueskullcandy



Series: wild is a Disney princess but not really [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), You'll get it I swear, but uhhhhhh, first series whoop whoop, god I hope I don't get super invested in this', just supposed to be fun I swear, the other boys are kinda here, uhhhhhh im not gunna tag anyone else cuz technically thats a spoiler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueskullcandy/pseuds/Blueskullcandy
Summary: So yes, theoretically Link knew what he was supposed to be doing.Theoretically, he was working toward an insurmountable goal with the impossible guideline to remember something he hadn’t even realized he had forgotten and he was working on the time table of hurry, before it’s too late!Theoretically, he didn't mean to think about his task so bitterly, but also theoretically, the voice would never know if he complained about his mission the entire way, now would she?So again, yes. Link theoretically knew what he was supposed to be doing.In practice? Link was not doing that.
Series: wild is a Disney princess but not really [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752796
Comments: 60
Kudos: 299





	1. A nice voice

**Author's Note:**

> AHHHH! I am not dead!... kinda. 
> 
> I'm currently absolutely swamped with exams and papers, so I decided to post something that is already written and that I don't really have to worry about. This was written completely for fun as a LW in the discord and is basically the introduction to a mini series that I've been thinking about for a while now. Should mostly be fun shenanigans and fluff with only a twinge of angst (cuz it is still me I guess...)
> 
> This is also an experiment with a different type of narrative voice,,, which isn't supper apparent in this chapter but I think you'll get the idea when we get to later ones. (Basically I tried to inject as much personality into Wild's tone as possible. We'll see if it actually works. And if not, hey, at least it was fun to write!)
> 
> Thanks so much and I hope you enjoy

It is dark.

It is dark and he cannot open his eyes. 

It is dark and he cannot open his eyes and he feels nothing.

No… that's not quite right.

He can feel… things.

Things like the hand on his face, brushing locks of sweaty, blood matted hair from his forehead. Can feel arms around his back, holding him in the lap of a slight body. Can feel drops of warm water drip onto his face, one after the another, a rhythm.

It was not raining when he fell. Tears then. But who is crying? 

He can’t remember and he can't open his eyes to check.

He can also feel pain, but it is distant, a figure on the horizon of his consciousness. He can feel it like how one feels an ache: present and slightly throbbing, but not noteworthy until one moves, until one focuses on the hurt.

And he does not want to focus on the hurt.

Does not want to focus on the fact that his entire body feels like it's been put through a meat grinder and then roughly shoved back into the shape of a person. Does not want to focus on the way he feels like he's drowning every time he breathes in, something bubbling, crackling with each breath out. Does not want to focus on the way his skin feels too hot and too cold, raw and sluffy, burnt and crinkling as it falls away. 

So he does not focus on that. 

Instead he focuses on the arms around him, the hands gently carding through his hair, the tears slowly dripping onto his cheeks.

He focuses on the soft voice above him, familiar, soothing despite its panic but unplaceable. A voice that begs him to  _ open his eyes.  _

_ Please, wake up, Link! Open your eyes, Please! _

It is a nice voice, he thinks as the darkness becomes heavier, a blanket on his body and mind. As the pain recedes further, a shadow in the night. As slowly, the other sensations, not just the ache but the warm lap and the shaking arms and the comforting hands and the tears become nothing but phantom sensations on his rapidly numbing skin

As slowly, the voice grows more distant, blurry with the cotton now stuffed in his ears.

A nice voice, he thinks. 

If this was the last thing he would ever hear, he is glad it is this nice voice.

…

  
  
  
  


_...open your eyes… _

_ Open your eyes. _

_ Wake up, Link! _

  
  
  
  


_ … _

  
  



	2. Theoretically...

Theoretically, Link knows what he’s supposed to be doing.

He is supposed to be gathering the Spirit Orbs from the ancient Sheikah shrines. And wasn't that a weird sentence to think about? Did he do things that sounded that keeseshit insane back then? In the before? In the blackness that was his life before the glowing water, the Slate, The Voice? He couldn’t tell you.

He was supposed to be gathering the Spirit Orbs for an old man in exchange for a paraglider that would allow him to leave the safety of the Great Plateau.

And why was he doing this? Why was he leaving the relatively idyllic if not isolated slice of earth he had found himself in?

Because The Voice had asked him to. 

Why had The Voice asked him to do this?

Apparently, because he was supposed to save the world.

_ Yeah... _

He doesn't really buy it either. In fact, he wasn't sure he should be listening to The Voice in the first place.

Even without the memories of his… –shit, how old was he?... ehhh?– even without the memories of his eighteen years of life, Link knew one wasn't supposed to hear voices in one's head, let alone listen to them.

And yet…

And yet, something in him  _ twisted _ at the thought of not listening to the voice.

Because it was The Voice. The soft, bone achingly familiar voice that had pulled him from the darkness. The Voice that had dragged him from his dreamless sleep and into the world of the living. The Voice that had given him a name.

The Voice that had named him Link.

It was The Voice that guided him from the chamber he had been trapped in, leading him to the Slate. The Slate that now sits at his hip, the thing that had allowed him to escape that cold, dark place.

It was The Voice that had lovingly called him the Light of Hyrule as he took his first shaking steps into the harsh rays of the sun, shielding his eyes as, for the first time since he could remember, he stepped out into the world.

So Link, who owed everything to the voice, could not just turn a blind eye when it asked something of him.

Could not say no when the voice had asked him to remember. Had begged him to remember a life he couldn't recall living 100 years ago. 

Could not say no when that voice had begged and pleaded in his mind as a beast of swirling purple miasma consumed the castle in the distance. Could not bring himself to run away as the beast had slammed into an invisible wall and seemed to split in half… no… when it had opened its unending maw, unhinged the non-existent bones of its jaw and  _ screamed. _

He could not deny the voice as it had begged  _ him _ , someone who couldn’t even remember his own name until she had spoken it into existence, to remember an entire life’s worth of memories and  _ to hurry. Hurry, before it’s too late! _

So yes, theoretically Link knew what he was supposed to be doing. 

Theoretically, he was working toward an insurmountable goal with the impossible guideline to remember something he hadn’t even realized he had forgotten and he was working on the time table of  _ hurry, before it’s too late! _

Theoretically, he didn't mean to think about his task so bitterly, but also theoretically, the voice would never know if he gripped about his mission the entire way, now would she?

So again, yes. Link theoretically knew what he was supposed to be doing.

In practice? Link was not doing that.

Well, he was doing that, but he was perhaps taking the scenic route to do so.

And how couldn't he?

Yes, that soft voice had asked for his help. Yes, she had helped him so much already and he wanted to repay her;  _ would _ repay her if the massive boulder of writhing guilt in his gut had anything to say about it.

But he couldn't help but explore the tiny segment of the world he found himself spat out in.

Because… well… because everything was just so… so  _ alive!  _

Which is how Link finds himself, three spirit orbs the richer, Slate now flashing with four runes– two types of bombs, the magnet one, and the stop time-y one– strolling through The Forest of Spirits with his head on a swivel and eyes wide.

He wants to take in  _ everything.  _ Wants to take in everything and etch it into his mind, never to be forgotten again. Because even if he can’t remember who he used to be, who the voice probably remembers him to be, at least  _ he _ will remember this. Him. Link.

And so he walks slowly and lets it all sink in. 

He notes the way the trees above his head are a bright verdant, their leaves highlighted yellow in some places where the sun is particularly bright. He takes in how, when he throws his head back, he can feel warm dappled light against his cheeks, against his smile.

As he walks through the forest, head back, not watching where he's walking but trusting the deer path to lead him well, Link notices how loud the woods around him are. In the branches above, birds twitter and call, singing wordless harmonies. The skittering of tiny animals accompanies them, percussion.

Link turns his head and eyes a swamp to his left and the humming of insects and chirping of frogs is added to the mix. 

For a second, he is overcome with the urge to run to the swamp and just shove his hands and feet into the muck. From here he can see how the brown bubbles and shifts, oozing in odd ripples. 

It looks disgusting. 

He wants to know how it will feel caked all over his arms and legs.

After all, he can’t remember what that type of mud feels like. Will it be slimy? Or is it thicker than it looks, squishy but oddly firm? And besides, the only ones who will judge him are the frogs, and they seem to be having a great time.

He catches the scent of the mud as he turns toward it, legs already poised to run.

Link’s nose wrinkles. Okay, on second thought, maybe he would try that particular new experience some other time.

Besides, he rationalizes as he sets himself back onto the deer path, he still needs to pick up some supplies for his trek across The River of the Dead– what a stupidly melodramatic name– and up Mt. Hylia to the last shrine. 

He needed food and probably something warm to wear 

Then he will have enough Spirit Orbs for the trade. 

He will leave all of this behind.

He should probably pick up extra supplies, he thinks, his steps slowing. He has no idea what the rest of the kingdom is like. Will the land be as plentiful? As full of trees with fruits and nuts? As rife with game? As absolutely full to the bursting with mushrooms? 

Or will it be dry and arid? No food except that which he has squirreled away in his slate? Will it be home to even more hordes of monsters? Kinds that he has never seen before?

There's no way to know until he takes the jump.

The thought scares him. 

It also excites the hell out of him.

So, Link continues his stroll through the woods, now actively searching among the trees and bushes for what he needs. He climbs an apple tree, the feeling of bark rough against his hands as he makes a grab for the firm, red fruit. Fresh dirt cakes the knees of his already stained pants as he kneels for mushrooms, the scent of wet growth thick in the air. 

With a newly acquired bow, he takes aim, breathes in the forest, and releases air along with an arrow. It pierces the head of a boar. He cleans the body, takes only what he needs, and leaves the rest for nature to do with as it will.

It doesn't take long until he is stocked, his slate full of images of meat and foliage. It also doesn't take long until he runs out of forest, the trees thinning as he comes to the edge of not only the woods, but of the plateau itself.

With another glance up, Link takes in how the branches thin, letting in the sun and allowing him to see the cornflower blue of the sky. With another step out from the trees, he tries to memorize the clouds, some fluffy, others more akin to white grass, flat and wavy against the hills of blue. 

Among the floating cotton, a bird, large and orangish-red sails, never once flapping its wings as it rides the wind.

And for a second, Link is struck by how  _ big _ the bird is. 

He’s never seen one so large before. Or at least, he can't remember seeing one so large. Not that that's saying much. 

Maybe it was just closer to the ground than most other birds of prey he had seen before? Most of those– the hawks, the falcons–stayed high in the air, only diving low to catch prey unawares in the cage of their inescapable talons. 

This bird, however, just glides, wheeling in the air in slow graceful circles. It never deviates from its path, never dips lower to dive, nor does it fly away to some perch off in the distance. It just … circles overhead. 

Directly overhead, in fact.

Link watches for a minute longer, shading his eyes from the sun as he watches the avian carve another oval in the air with his wings. Eventually, however, with no sign of change, he lets his hand and eyes drop back down. Down to the edge of the plateau that lays before him.

It really was amazing, Link thinks as he strides closer to the brink and looks over the edge. Amazing how vast and beautiful and strange the world was.

Below him, the rock face that wasn't a rock face leads down, too far for him to safely climb to the land below.

He has no idea why the entire edge of the plateau looks like this; the sides of the cliff most definitely made from built up cobblestone rather than good old natural dirt and rock. It makes it look like the plateau was just… dropped here, the carved stone sides of the cliff merely artifacts from where it had been originally left intact. 

His eyes flick back up, taking in the expanse of land before him. The land he could see but not touch. The land he would be gliding down to soon enough at the behest of The Voice.

_ If the plateau really was dropped here, where did it come from? _ he wonders, idly.

By the volcano, red with lava against the horizon? Or maybe somewhere past those mountains in the distance, the ones that looked like someone had taken one mountain and wrenched it into two? Perhaps past the castle, in the lands beyond the purple smoke? Or–?

The world tilts as Link feels his stomach fly up into his throat and then down past his shoes. Down. Down like the section of wall he had been standing on. Down. Down toward the unforgiving, unyielding ground.

Down. He is falling down.

_ Fuck,  _ he thinks, as a scream is punched up from his lungs,  _ I could really use a paraglider right about now. _

Link’s eyes screw shut as wind rushes past his face, too loud.

He doesn't want to see the ground rushing up to meet him.

So in the dark, he falls. In the dark, he screams. 

In the dark, a birdlike screech echoes back, getting louder and louder and louder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's that personality I was talking about earlier! Making Wild this sassy and skeptical was so much fun to write.
> 
> Anyway, should have the last two chapters up tomorrow! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. The Bird

Link is screaming. 

Link knows he must be screaming, but he cannot hear it over the sound air whistling past his face. Cannot hear it over the pounding rhythm of his blood in his ears. 

He knows he must be screaming because his throat burns, ripped apart by a combination of 100 years of disuse and then  _ sudden, terrible use. _

He is screaming. He is screaming and screaming and screaming silently into the wind until he can scream no more.

And as he falls, down down down through the dark, deafened by the shrill screech of air, blind of his own volition, he finds he cannot breathe back in. Air is rushing past his face but none enters his lungs. 

No. There is a stone lodged in his throat and his stomach has flown up and tangled with his diaphragm, stopping his breaths in their tracks. 

Nothing’s going in, nothing’s coming out.

For a brief, sick moment, Link wonders if he’ll suffocate before he even hits the ground. 

And then in the next moment, his head whips forward, his chin colliding painfully with his chest as something catches in his tunic and jolts him to a stop. 

The momentum from his fall slams into his back, forcing a tiny, extra bit of air he hadn't known was still in his empty lungs to wheeze out from between his lips, opening up the floodgates. Link begins to hack, his chest hiccupping as he tries to breathe in and breathe out at the same time. His guts seemingly continue his descent without him before they realize he's stopped with the whole  _ falling to his death thing  _ and slingshot back into his body, and oh hylia, Link is  _ gonna hurl. _

He doesn't hurl. Thankfully.

Instead, he hangs limply in the hold of whatever has caught him, forcing himself to breathe slow and deep as his stomach finally slips back into its correct position and as his heart lets up on its incessant hammering against his ribs.

It's only then, when the bloodrush has left his head throbbing and hot and his lungs are filling and releasing regularly and he’s sure hes not going to lose his lunch that Link opens his eyes.

He isn't sure whether to feel horrified or relieved. 

Horrified that he appears to have been caught only fifteen feet from the ground, the stone so close that Link can see where grass and dandelions push up from between the cracks in the old, forgotten road. Relieved that he, in fact,  _ didn't  _ fall those last fifteen feet. 

Horrified that massive, red and white wings bracket his vision, their powerful down strokes sending gusts of wind against his back, air once again rattling his ears. Relieved that whatever had caught him– the bird he thinks distantly. The massive bird from before– has caught him by his clothes rather than by his skin.

The beating of feathers gets louder and faster, the short but powerful gusts of air buffeting all around Link’s body and he realizes that… hm… maybe it actually caught him twenty feet from the ground? … thirty?

No…

Adrenalin sends a swift kick to his chest, jump starting his heart’s rapid staccato once more as the ground begins to blur into broad strokes of a paintbrush, brown, grey, and green.

They’re rising, the bird hauling both of them back into the air, one mighty wingbeat at a time.

Within seconds, the edge of the Great Plateau comes into view and the bird leans forward in the air, dragging Link toward the blessed stable ground and–!

Link lets out a choked off groan as the bird drops him, stomach down, face first into the dirt.

For a second he is speechless, frozen as the smell of dirt and grass fills his lungs, fresh yet earthy, familiar and safe. In the next second, Link wonders if the bird intentionally dropped him in the stupidest position possible as payback. He would almost be pissed at the rough treatment if he weren't so thankful to have the ground beneath his feet– err– body once more. 

He contemplates kissing the ground. Then he stops contemplating and starts doing, because to hell with it, he almost just died and he loves the ground and the way it supports him and lets him walk without dying on it, and he’s never tasted dirt before– or at least he doesnt remeber if he has!– so why the fuck not.

There's no one here to judge him after all.

The sound of wingbeats, first slow and then rapid as the bird pushes itself to a stop fills the air and when Link pulls himself into a seated position, he can see the gigantic, burnt red bird has alighted directly in front of him. 

It takes a step toward him with its long, yellow legs, shuffling its wings until they are placed neatly on its back. Then, it leans down, long neck scrunching up as it looks at him, head tilted to the side so one large, amber eye can gaze directly into Link’s face.

If a massive bird could look equal parts confused and judgemental, this one certainly does as it inspects him.

“What?” Link rasps defensively, voice soft like the breeze but scratchy like sand.

His words, as quiet as they are, seem to jolt the animal out of some sort of reverie, because with a shake of its head and a soft chitter– more beak clattering than actual vocalization– the bird shoves a bill the size of Link’s head into the teen’s chest and begins nosing around.

“Hey!” Link yelps as the beak pokes into his ribs. 

He shoves a hand into the soft cream and orange feathers of the animal’s crest and shoves its head away. The bird merely lets out another coo and takes another step closer. Then, it dives back in, now thrusting it’s entire skull into Link's stomach, giving the amnesiac a face full of feathers for his troubles.

After a few more seconds of futile struggles, Link lets the stupid bird have its way, tolerating the chitters and pokes as the massive bird, quite literally, mother hens him into submission.

A few agonizing minutes later, the bird finally lets him up, letting out a small whistle of satisfaction as it finishes it’s inspection. 

With a brush of his hands to dislodge the wayward feathers now caught in his tunic and a huff of only somewhat performative irritation, Link pushes himself to his feet, finally able to start an inspection of his own

The bird is, as Link had expected, absolutely massive. Even with it’s neck folded gracefully to allow the animal to look more easily into Link’s eyes, the teen can tell that the bird easily stands at around eight feet tall, its wingspan no doubt at least twenty feet, probably more.

The majority of its body is covered in beautiful, crimson feathers.

No… actually... Now that Link isn't busy plummeting to his death or being smothered by them, Link can see that they are not quite as startling scarlet as he had thought. 

No. They are more orange, akin to the color of a sunrise, soft and pleasant. It is the type of orange one can see just before blue overtakes the black of night, the first light of day, warm and reassuring.

The undersides of its wings, however, are a pure, cloud white, stark against the warmth of the orange. A pure, beautiful white, interrupted only as the tips of the wings fade into a pleasant teal, capped with bright, yellow; the sun hanging easily in the middle of day.

To put it simply, the bird is painted in all the shades of the sky, from dawn till dusk. 

Even the light cream of the down feathers on its neck reminds him of–?

A cloth. 

There is a cloth tied around the bird’s neck like a bandana, the fabric folded into a triangle, displaying the careful blue needle work of a design embroidered into the piece. A design that looks like a bird with bright cobalt wings outstretched in the sky of white it soars in.

“Does this belong to your owner?” Link asks quietly as he steps closer to the bird, running light hands over the stiching. It is beautiful work, he thinks. Symmetrical and tight. Built to last and undoubtedly skilled, the image stylized but recognizable. 

Link is so engrossed in examining the cloth that he almost misses the way the bird shakes its head no.

Almost.

With a jump, Link all but throws himself back away from the bird as if the cloth had burned him, eyes flashing up to meet the gold of the bird’s unblinking gaze.

“Did you just shake your head no?” he asks, voice still scratchy but words going high and incredulous at the end, mind going a mile a minute. 

Because this is a dumb question. He may have never seen a bird like this before, and he may only remember approximately three days worth of things, but he knows for a fact that animals do not understand people. Or, at least, they don't understand anything outside of tone, more in tune to the sound than actual words.

But this bird… This bird has the audacity to nod. 

“Okay!” Link says shrilly, taking a few stumbling steps away from the bird, who looks at him with that tilted head once again. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay,” he mumbles as his feet begin to lead him through a few back and forth paces, words coming out faster and faster and faster.

“Okay!” he says again, pointing a finger accusingly at the bird. The bird, for it’s part, tilts its head the other way, as if ready for it to be addressed. Insult to injury, the little shit. 

“Okay, if you can really understand me, turn around in a circle.”

With what sounds like a chuckling coo, the bird turns in a circle.

“Counter-clockwise!” Link orders, feeling bubbly, giggly,  _ hysterical _ laughter floating up from his chest when the bird fucking does exactly that. 

Link flops backwards onto his butt and brings his hands up to his face, staring at the creases of his palms.

He takes stock of the situation.

He, Link, an amnesiac who woke up three days ago from a supposedly 100 year sleep, is on a quest to save the disembodied voice who gave him a name from a swirling, smoke cloud of pure hatred.

And now apparently, animals understand him when he speaks.

A confused little hum sounds from the bird and it takes a step forward, toward where Link is having his moment. Link, however, busy having his moment, ignores it and pulls his Slate from his belt, rapidly thumbing through the menus on the screen.

Maybe he got a new rune and he just hadn't seen it! No… no new icons on the main screen… A new feature all together maybe?

The coo rumbles again, this time right beside Link’s face as the bird’s bill gently nudges into the side of his cheek. He shoves it away mechanically, too focused on his device to notice the sad churr it makes in response.

It’s beak begins to comb through his hair, but Link can only distantly feel the light pull, pull, pull of the motion as he flicks past the map and… nothing! There's nothing there! Animals didn't understand him a minute ago… unless they could and he had just never noticed. 

Oh shit, the boar! What if the boar was trying to tell him something and he shot it! Oh Hylia he shot–!

Link’s slate is yanked from his hands, pulling the teen from his quickly spiraling thoughts and back into the present moment.

The present moment where the bird has snatched his Slate with its beak and is _ walking away with it! _

“Hey!” Link calls, hopping to his feet and giving chase. “Give that back!”

He reaches the bird’s side quickly– it wasn't walking away very fast, Link notes– and makes a grab for the device. 

The bird merely shifts its head out of the way of Link’s grabbing hands, sending him what looks to be a smile. Well, as much of a smile as slightly crinkled eyes and a beak can convey. 

Link makes his second grab for the Slate and this time, the bird extends its neck, sending the little information filled stone that Link has been depending on for all his life– all three days of it!– about 8 feet up in the air. 

And then the bird keeps walking, forcing Link to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting into the Disney princess part of this not Disney princess au. that and the birb is here!!! love the birb.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! If you wanna chat about lu or loz in general hit me up on Tumblr @fuckit-hero-of-trains
> 
> See y'all soon!!!


	4. A New Rune

They walk back the way Link had come; along the deer path through the Forest of Spirits.

Hypothetically, it should be a beautiful and peaceful walk, just like it was when Link had tread through the winding dirt path mere minutes ago.

In practice, it is anything but.

In practice, Link is too focused on the sunset orange of the bird to pay attention to the forest around him. No, as they walk, the woods are but a blurred background of greens and browns as the teen keeps his eyes firmly locked on the stupid bird and the Slate it carries in it’s beak. 

So, again, no. It is nothing like his earlier trek through the Forest of Spirits, full of exploring the lush greenery, searing every sensation into his mind to sort through later. This is not a relaxing, stupidly fun, and beautiful walk through nature, trying to soak in everything like a sponge. 

In fact, “walk” is probably too generous a word for what they are actually doing: aka, hesitant stepping and pissed off jumping.

The bird progresses forward slowly on it’s long yellow legs, each step a careful movement, like a heron tiptoeing through a marsh. Based on its slow progress, Link would have to guess that the thing doesn't spend very much time on the ground, probably more used to flying than walking.

Link, meanwhile, stomps beside the damned thing, occasionally leaping up to try to snatch his Slate back from its beak, to no success.

After about twenty minutes of an entirely one-sided game of keep-away and a pair of aching legs later, Link lets out a frustrated huff and falls into step behind the massive avian, letting it guide him as it chooses.

And the damn thing has the audacity to crane its neck back to eye him, letting out a churring coo at the sight of his frustrated face. Laughing! The damned bird is laughing at him!

“You know I could shoot you, right?” he grumbles as he follows it, kicking a stone off of the path not unlike a petulant child. “I’ve got my bow right here. I could shoot you and have you cleaned and plucked in time for dinner, you oversized cucco.”

Link gets a mouthful of feathers for his troubles, the bird flicking its cream and orange tail into his face, punishment for the sass.

The teen slaps the offending appendage away and then swipes his hand over his face roughly, spitting out a piece of down.

“Stupid bird,” Link mumbles under his breath. 

Another flick of the tail, more feathers to the face. 

“Quit it!” Link hisses, once again shoving the offending fluff out of his space. 

Another churring coo. The bastard. 

  
  


…

  
  
  


Even with their slow progress, Link and the bird soon emerge from the other side of the forest, the noonday sun bright and warm as they leave the dappled shade of the trees behind in favor of the field in front of them.

_ It really is a beautiful day _ , Link muses as he trudges behind the bird, who seems to have no intention of stopping anytime soon.

Beautiful. Truly beautiful.

It is beautiful how bright the sky is, blue in a way that Sheikah technology cannot match. Natural in a way Sheikah technology is not. It is beautiful how vibrant the grass is, caught in the noonday sun and swaying lightly in the faint breeze, turning the field into a sweeping ocean of veridian. Waves rolling in, waves rolling out.

They stride through the tide of green, until it too fades, the grass slowly turning to worn and cracked cobblestone.

And yet, the bird continues to walk, talons clacking on rock as Link is treated to the unique sight of the great avian walking up stairs and...

“Are you taking me to the temple?” Link asks as he follows the bird up the small set of steps, taking them two at a time until he stands in the middle of the broken and decayed square, next to the large, circular, stone fountain. 

The teens' eyes flick up the hill, taking in the dismantled building, the twin spires missing their third sister, the old, red tiled roofing that looks one stiff breeze from coming down. 

He looks at the building in its vine and moss covered half glory and wracks his name for its name. Something equally as dramatic as the rest of the plateau, if he were to guess. 

_ Temple of… Temple of…  _

The name hits him, the toll of a phantom bell vibrating through his ears.

“Are you taking me to the Temple of Time?”

The bird swings its massive head around and gives a little, affirmative whistle, two notes flying up and up, muffled from around the Slate.

And with that, the bird continues up the hill, striding more confidently even as it walks amongst the wreckage.

And even that– the wreckage and the debris– even that, Link has to admit as he climbs upward, is beautiful.

It is beautiful how the walls, broken yet strong, stand resolute and present, criss crossed with vines and blanketed in soft looking moss. Beautiful how the soft skittering of small creatures–mice and squirrels and field snakes– softly disturbes the quiet. 

It is beautiful how nature survives and thrives even from between the bones of a destroyed kingdom. 

Faintly, as he stumbles over a displaced slab of stone, boots crunching over the shattered remains of an ancient pot, Link wonders if he would think it was as beautiful if he could remember. Remember what it looked like before the verdant moss or the graceful vines or the little animals.

If he could remember what it looked like full of another kind of life.

But he doesn't.

So it is all beautiful to him.

Well, almost all of it.

He cannot find beauty in… them.

In the unnatural, vase-like barnacles that cling to the sides of broken walls. He cannot find beauty in their mechanical, segmented legs, spindly and too numerous. He has no love for the carvings along their bodies, smooth and perfect as they may be.

They are too smooth, too perfect.

They are eyesores in their perfection, even submerged and dirt and laced in vines. 

Even as they pass by them, three unnatural heads poking from a mound of dirt encroaching on the final set of stairs leading to the temple, Link looks away from them. 

Looks away from them and ignores the way he feels his scars flare, the way air feels like it's been punched out of his lungs, the way his heart pounds, the way his eyes get misty.

The teen is glad when they are out of eyeline of the mechanical monsters.

Or at least he is until another monster reveals itself.

Because there, at the top of the stairs, standing idly in front of the temple’s entrance, is a blue Bokoblin. 

A blue Bokoblin weilding a bone spiked club and a round travelers shield. A blue bokoblin that takes one look at Link and his bird companion and lets out a shrieking cry, dashing forward. A blue bokoblin that Link can’t fight head on because all his weapons but his bow are locked away as images in his Slate. 

The monster streaks toward them–no. Toward him

The Bokoblin completely disregards the massive bird, swinging it’s run around the avian before dashing back around to face Link head on, red, pupiless eyes fever bright and hungry as it brandishes its club.

It throws its arm out, swinging its club in a half circle, trying to slam any part of the wood, the bone into Link’s exposed body.

Link dives away from the attack, swinging his bow out from behind his back as he stumbles to his feet and quickly fumbles with an arrow, trying to set it in the string and pull it back as fast as possible. 

However, before he can pull the string taut, before he can line up a shot, a flash of dawn breaks, and the bokoblin is thrown to the ground, it’s legs knocked out from under it

It is the bird.

The massive bird that now approaches the downed Bokoblin, orange feathers fluffed up, neck stretched toward the heavens, and wings flared as far as they will go. The massive bird that has apparently spit out Link’s Slate and is instead using its beak to hiss in a way that the teen didn’t know birds could as it stalks forward on it’s long legs.

The bird that somehow grows even taller as it rears back on one foot, lifts one, yellow scaled and wickedly talon-ed leg into the air, and then  _ stomps  _ down directly onto the Bokoblin’s shield wielding arm.

A horrible snap– bone? wood? Link can’t tell– sounds through the air and the Bokoblin lets out a squealing scream. A squealing scream that is quickly silenced as the bird brings it leg back up into the air once more and then slams its down on the things head with a sickening crunch.

In seconds, nothing is left of the creature but a puff of purple smoke, its club, a few teeth, and a shattered shield.

And Link is left staring at the bird who neatly folds its wings against its back once more. The bird that gives itself a little ruffle until the rest of its feathers lay flat. The bird that turns to him and lets out a little concerned churr at the sight of his slightly misplaced clothes, stepping forward and nuzzling it’s beak into his chest.

Almost without thinking, Link brings his hands up, threading his fingers through the feathers on the bird’s crest as his other hand smoothes out the beautiful bandana around the avian’s neck.

“Okay,” he says, fighting back a smile as a rumbling, almost purr vibrates through his chest, courtesy of the bird. “Okay, that works too.”

Soon enough, however, the bird steps away from Link and bends down, collecting his Slate once more as it finally steps through the threshold of the building, entering the Temple of Time proper with Link close behind.

Link steps through the crumbling door, the sun’s harsh rays suddenly falling away from his back as he is enveloped in cool shade. It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the sudden change in lighting, but when they do, Link feels something inside him unwind and relax. 

The bird strides forward through the still, peaceful wreckage, steps more confident than before, the clacking of talons on stone no longer ginger, but rather quick and eager. Head bobbing with each step, the orange avian walks toward the unmoving, always smiling statue in the back with its head held high, its fluffy tail uncurled and wagging behind it. 

And Link… well, he's come this far. Might as well humor the stupid cucco. It did just save him after all. 

Not to mention the fact that he still needs his Slate if he's going to enter the last shrine.

He shakes his head, smiling.

_Stupid, stupid bird._

So Link takes a breath, letting the smell of damp moss fill his nose. And then he breathes back out, following behind the orange bird that still leads him further into the building. 

Link has to admit that he...likes the Temple of Time.

Maybe  _ likes _ isn't the right word for it, he thinks idly, stepping over a slab of stone from the collapsed ceiling. There is something… familiar about it. Something soothing.

After stepping out of the cave he had been trapped within, gazing out into a world he had never seen before, Link had felt overwhelmed. His ears had rung with sounds he couldn't place, his skin had prickled uncomfortably under the too tight clothes he had scrounged together. His nose was filled with so many scents he couldn't place and the colors around him were both beautiful and almost too vivid, so  _ bright _ and  _ alive _ . 

And as he had looked out over the cliff he found himself on, he was filled with a glowing, searing excitement. A burning need to throw himself off every cliff he could see just to see what was below. A need to race down every hill stretched and rolling before him, to feel the curvature with his own feet, his legs. A need to feel wind in his hair, rain on his skin, the buzz of static dancing, prickling at his blood.

He had looked out on an unexplored world bathed in the pink light of a dawning day and something inside him had screamed with the need to do  _ everything. _

It was exhilarating, considering everything he could and would do with his newfound freedom. 

But it was also… a lot. A lot to consider how small he was in the world.A lot to think about the sheer amount of things there was to do. 

It was a lot, even though he was excited for it.

But there was something about The Temple of Time that settled him.

In a world so full of new things to discover and experience and  _ remember,  _ the Temple of Time held a sort of familiarity within it. He feels safe here. In fact he felt so safe here that he had spent his first night within it’s crumbling walls, curled up in one of the alcoves near the entrance.

Another hop, skip, and a jump, avoiding more debris as he follows the bird closer and closer to the back of the building. 

_ There’s just something about it _ , Link thinks. Something about the way graceful carved stone gives way to jagged destruction. Something about the way grass pokes through the cobble stone floor, bright against the gray. Something about the missing section of wall exposing the interior to the light, the world, that Link likes. 

He likes how open it is, the entire building able to breathe with him. He likes the way moss blankets everything, turning even the sounds that permeate the ruin somehow softer, more comforting. He likes the way light reflects off the shattered remnants of stained glass littered everywhere. Likes how it makes little rainbows in the corners of his eye. 

And he likes the statue in the back. Likes the way she has moss encircling her waist, a fluffy skirt of green. He likes her serene expression, her eyes and smile soft despite being carved from stone. 

He likes her, whoever she is. 

So Link has no quarrel with following the bird as it strides up the altar to stand directly beneath her benevolent face. 

He's done the same thing before. Has stood underneath her unflinching stone, has gazed up into her face and stared. Stared in the silence of a broken down temple, matching her smile with one of his own, a secret shared just between the two of them. 

What he hasn't done before, however, is stand before the statue with the bird next to him. 

And apparently, that makes all the difference in the world.

Link is rooted to the spot, eyes wide and mouth agape as light–not just afternoon sun–but yellow rays of pure light cascade from the ceiling, seemingly breaking through the roof to shine down, bright and pure and clean onto the dais. 

More light, swirls up from the altar, faint reds and blues and greens mixed in with the predominant yellow, swirling beneath the statue, the moving glow catching in her carved robes and wings almost making her look like she's moving. Like she's alive.

The bird strides forward fearlessly toward the center of the altar, toward the light, and deposits the slate directly onto the sigil carved into the stone. The sigil of a stylized bird, much like the one on his friend’s bandana: wings outstretched, three triangles cradled between its feathers.

And as soon as the Slate touches the stone, the light suddenly flashes brighter, increasing tenfold and Link is forced to throw a hand over his face to block it out. And even then, red burns behind his eyelids, like when he turns his face skyward and lets the sun kiss his cheeks.

Bright, then. So bright it's like the sun.

And then just like that, the light fades, darkness blossoming behind his eyelids once more.

The light fades and Link can open his eyes, blinking white sparks and black spots from his eyes as he looks down at his Slate.

His Slate that is now glowing bright blue and making soft beeping noises.

Link looks at the bird. The bird looks back. And then it gives him that not-smile. Head tilted, the amber eye gazing at him crinkled with mirth and beak clacking excitedly. 

So Link shrugs and quickly scoops up the device. 

He scoops it up and watches as the screen flashes the Sheikah symbol and then lets out four, familiar ascending notes. Beside the open space where the final rune should go, yellow lines carve themselves through the blue of the screen, first forming a square and then filling it with that same divine color from before.

With a flash of gold, the screen finally returns to normal, a new rune now available in the hud.

A yellow rune with three triangles stacked together– like the birds bandanna, like the carving on the ground beneath his feet–to form one bigger one. 

The rightmost triangle is oddly brighter than the others.

Without a second thought, Link clicks it

_ Error. No wielder registered. _ Comes the voice of the slate, as flat and unalive as ever.

“No wielder…? What does that mean?” Link asks the open air, flipping the Slate this way and that, searching for anything else new. 

Much to his surprise, his rhetorical question gets an answer.

Well, sort of.

The bird steps forward once more, lightly pecking at Link’s arm with its beak until the teen stops his inspection and holds the slate out, screen up for the bird to see.

And then the bird reaches around and plucks a single feather from it’s back and places the sunrise orange pinion down on the glowing blue glass.

_ Authenticating… _

_ Wielder one of eight registered... _

With four more ascending notes, the screen flashes gold once again, and this time, the new rune has a small symbol next to it. 

A harp.

Link’s eyes flick back and forth between the screen and the bird. The bird, meanwhile, turns it’s head, inspecting him with a single amber eye, an encouraging whistle rising up from its bill.

“You want me to press it?” Link asks tentatively, hovering a finger above the new icon.

The bird nods, clacking it’s bill and doing that weird not quite smile it can somehow do again.

And honestly, the bird makes an excellent point. How can Link argue with that? 

“Okay,” he replies. “Here goes.”

He presses the icon.

And beside him, his friend’s orange feathers begin to shift in shade, going from soft morning light to the sky at noon, bright and blue. And glowing. His friend is glowing now. Glowing brighter and brighter and then so bright that Link almost misses how parts of the bird begin to unravel into ribbons of ethereal blue light. The ribbons unfurl the bird, until it is nothing but streams of aquamarine and then they rise upward, out of sight, out of existence.

_ Huh, _ he thinks blankly,  _ so that's what it looks like when I do that.  _

For a second, Link is left alone in the broken, silent temple.

And in the next second, a soft hum sounds next to him, ribbons of light appearing from nothing. 

They swirl together, take shape, take form, and then the bird is beside him once more. 

With a happy whistle, the bird leans forward and begins preening through his hair. A wing flashes out and encircles Link’s back and then all but smooshes him against the avian’s feathery chest. Little clacks of excitement ring out above him as a warm humming begins to emit from the chest his entire face is being pressed into. 

“Okay…?” Link says blankly for a second, petting through the feathers closest to his face, his brain working furiously. And then after a beat, with more energy: “Okay, this is actually pretty cool! So I can summon you? Whenever, where-ever?”

Link feels the bird’s head shift. A nod. 

“Sweet! Does this mean you can fly me places?”

Another nod, more excited this time. 

“Awesome! Can you fly me to the last shrine?”

A shake of the head.

Link shoves himself away from the preening bill and the warm humming and the soft feathers, giving the bird before him an incredulous look.

“No?” he says, the word coming out high. “What do you mean, no?”

The bird leans down and examines him with a half lidded eye. 

How a bird can manage a judgemental stare, Link will never know.

“No, you can’t? Or no, you won't?” Link demands throwing the bird a sour look. 

The bird continues to stare at him. Turns its head to examine him with it’s other eye. And then very purposefully rolls that eye, lid fluttering as the avian lets out a little aggravated churr. 

For a second, Link thinks the little shit is just being, well, a little shit. But as the bird continues to stare at him dryly, the hero nearly slaps himself because  _ fucking duh.  _ The bird can understand him, but it can’t exactly explain itself. And it doesn't look like it has any intention to, even if it could. 

_ Fine then. If that's how the overgrown cucco wants to play it.  _

“Fine! Fine! I’ll go by myself!” Link hisses stepping down from the altar, throwing a glare at the bird. The bird, in turn, merely tucks its legs under itself and sits down, fluttering its wings until they sit comfortably on its back as it watches Link stomp away in a huff

“I’m going!” Link says, throwing the words over his shoulder, voice going high at the end, imploring. 

He flashes the bird a look over his shoulder. 

And the bird looks back and bobs its head, moving it’s bill in a little “shoo, shoo” motion.

_ Well, that didn't work.  _

With a sigh, Link gives up the charade, slumping. Something tells him that though his friend is here to help him, to guide him, there are some limitations to what the bird is allowed to do. 

“Okay, okay,” Link says a little glumly, hoping over the debris of the temple as he walks toward the open wall. 

He looks out across the plateau. Bright green grass. Clear blue sky. So much land. So much to do. 

He throws another look at the bird, mock glare from before gone, a something timid taking over his expression.

And this time, when the bird bobs it's head, it looks less like a “shoo, shoo” and more like a "go on. get out there, kid."

Link feels a smile pull at his lips and he _swears_ he sees the bird wink. The bastard.

He holds up his Slate as he approaches the doorway.

“But you’ll come if I use this right?”

The bird nods its big head, eyes crinkled fondly as it whistles a single high note. A yes.

With a smile, bigger than before and with no hint of timidness, Link nods back to the bird and turns to leave. Turns to head back out into the world. Alone for now, but _really,_ not alone at all.

“I’ll see you later!” he says and then dashes away, back out into the wild.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
...  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It is quiet in the Temple of Time.

The choruses of days past have long since been silenced, replaced by the single note drone of wind through broken walls, through shattered stained glass.

It is quiet in the Temple of Time as a bird, a loftwing spreads its feathers in the sun peaking through the shattered ceiling. 

And as the light hits its feathers, the bird ignites in an orange glow, the dawn of a new day in the middle of the afternoon.

And as the light dissipates, there is no longer a bird sitting before the ever smiling stone face of the goddess.

No. There is no bird. 

Instead, there is a boy kneeling in front of the statue, head bowed in reverence, a beautifully embroidered white and blue cloth splayed over his shoulders like wings.

After a moment of silence, a silent orison, the boy looks up at the statue, sky blue eyes staring into unmoving stone.

“I wish you would let me speak with them, my Sun,” the boy says a little sadly. 

A sigh. 

“I wish you would let me speak with them, but I understand why it has to be like this.”

The boy looks out through the shattered wall, catching sight of the other teen, other boy, other  _ hero _ as the blond disappears behind a hill, off to his next destination. 

The boy smiles.

“He’s quite the handful,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m sure the others are going to love him.” 

A small shadow passes over his face.

“There's so much he has to do… So much he has to go through…”

The shadow passes, the sun coming back after a cloudy day.

“But I think he’ll be fine.”

A nod to the unmoving stone. 

“Yeah. He’ll be fine.” 

In a flash of light, the boy disappears and is replaced with the bird.

With a small bow, the bird dips low in front of the statue of his goddess, his Sun, with his dawn wings spread wide. And then in a flurry of feathers, the bird takes flight. 

Soaring up up up, through the shattered ceiling of the temple and off to keep an eye on the newest Light of Hyrule. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand, that all for now folks!
> 
> So as some of you rightfully guessed, this is an au where in which all of the other LU boys get to help out Wild along his journey. The catch? They're all animal spirits. And the new hero is Wild... So yeah, they're gunna have their hands (paws? talons?) full. 
> 
> The rest of this story will mostly take the form of one shots or little short chaptered stories like this one featuring a different hero helping out Wild. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for reading! I wanna thank everyone who commented You guys are awesome!!!
> 
> If you wanna chat about this au or Lu and Zelda in general, feel free to hit me up @fuckit-hero-of-trains on Tumblr.
> 
> Stay safe guys and I'll (hopefully) see you soon!!!


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